newme

For the last week and a half I have been drunk, social, outgoing. I have danced on patios, in living rooms, on the street, and in the back rooms of bars. I have dressed as a “hot cop” and a lecherous mid-life college professor. I have flirted, yelled, broken glasses, grabbed my crotch. In the wake of these bacchanalian barbecues, bluegrass throwdowns, spring time hangovers, tequila brunches, and beer garden escapades, I feel content, to an extent. I have ignored unmindful Miranda, and this is ok. I have been offered a job in a distant desert, and this is great. I have renewed my faith in my ability to impress, to touch a woman’s hand and make her shiver, to grind with the grace of the inebriated, and to play the arrogant asshole, bullying cynic, wide-eyed buffoon, booty shaking glad handing smile man.
I have been drunk for days, and am tired all of the time. I haven’t done work for a week and a half. My eyes are always dry and sleep, though I get it, leaves me tired, cotton-mouthed, bleary. I am really just passing the time, and the nights move faster when the events are blurred by my sleepy, drunken eyes.